


a seal upon your body

by summerofspock



Series: of joints and of marrow [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1500s, Angst, Flogging, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, but not in a sexy way, erotic wound tending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:08:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23435947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: And when Aziraphale limped out of the square, face stone still, Crowley blindly followed after. There was little else he could do.Crowley had been following blindly after Aziraphale for a long time now.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: of joints and of marrow [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672942
Comments: 27
Kudos: 402





	a seal upon your body

**Author's Note:**

> again, wildly historically inaccurate please enjoy. from my wikipedia research Martin Luther did practice self-flagellation but I can't vouch for him flogging others. But I needed I reason for flogging so here we are.
> 
> title adapted from song of solomon 8:6

Crowley saw it happen.

Working against Martin Luther had been a pain from the start. Seeing Aziraphale working with him had been salt in the wound.

Watching Luther whip Aziraphale as a form of holy penance nearly broke him entirely.

It happened in the town square, Luther extolling virtues before taking the flogger to Aziraphale’s bare back. The beautiful expanse of it splitting into welts that bled.

20 lashes.

That was all.

Crowley felt each one.

And when Aziraphale limped out of the square, face stone still, Crowley blindly followed after. There was little else he could do.

Crowley had been following blindly after Aziraphale for a long time now.

He used to mind. He used to spit and hiss at himself. Try to convince himself he was just doing it to stay in Aziraphale’s good favor. To tempt him. To make Crowley's job easier.

It had been a lie since the start. Crowley realized that the first time Aziraphale patched his wounds after the battle outside Nicaea.

His touch had been sure and confident and warm. And Crowley had been aching in every way that counted.

It turned out they weren't friends. You weren't supposed to be in love with your friends. Want to kiss them stupid. Fuck them on every surface. Making love to them.

And Crowley wanted all those hideous things.

The worst bit of it all was that he knew Aziraphale wanted it too. Aziraphale every time asking him to stay. Treating him delicately. Trying to kiss him before and after and during.

Maybe that was a lie. The worst part is that the Aziraphale had no idea he wanted it.

And Crowley was going to keep it that way.

What were they supposed to fucking do? Curl up in some cottage somewhere? Not bloody likely.

More like having feelings and hurting each other because they were enemies. Couldn't change that.

So Crowley did a pretty good job of keeping a leash on himself. He could hurt for both of them. Let Aziraphale live in a world where the way they fucked was a convenience. Where it didn't mean bruises to the heart and blood like fire in collapsed veins.

Aziraphale was in his little set of rooms. The one Crowley knew about but had never been to because he didn't want Aziraphale to know he was in town. Didn't want to risk anything, didn't want to show his hand.

He eased open the door and saw Aziraphale in the corner of the room, wringing water from a rag and trickling it down his back. It ran pink over the dimples at the base of his spine, soaking his braies.

He turned at the creak of the door and hissed in pain as the movement pulled at his injuries. At the sight of Crowley, he knocked over the basin of water and swore

"Oh bugger."

Crowley bit back a smile. Of course the angel swore like that. Nary a dirty word from that mouth unless they were…

Then Aziraphale’s pretty face was contorting in pain. His mouth was a raspberry stain, blood smeared across his lips from where he’d bitten them to stay silent during the flogging.

Crowley was across the room in a second, thoughts of angels at arm’s length and reasonable distance forgotten. Aziraphale looked vulnerable and drawn and the thing in Crowley that had pushed him to kiss Aziraphale nearly 1000 years ago was coiling through him again.

"Fuck, angel, sit down," Crowley said, tearing off his riding cloak and throwing it aside as he summoned a stool for Aziraphale to sit on.

"It's fine Crowley, please," Aziraphale said. "I’ll be...I’ll be fine."

"Probably," Crowley admitted. "But I'm here and this is what we do. We take care of each other."

Aziraphale's nostrils flared. "And when you're not here, what am i supposed to do then?"

"Drop me a line," Crowley said, ignoring the acid in Aziraphale’s tone. "I'd come. You know that."

Aziraphale took a step forward and then hissed in pain, eyes squeezing shut as his face paled.

Crowley waited. It was all he could do. He wasn't going to say it again. Let me help. Let me ease your aches or make them worse. Tell me and I'll do it. Whatever you want, angel.

Finally Aziraphale moved closer and let Crowley ease him down onto the stool. The flogger had only torn skin in five places, the rest red and bruising.

Crowley, unable to resist, brushed his fingers through the sweat damp hair at the base of Aziraphale’s neck. "Why did you let him do this?"

"Part of the assignment. Working with the man. Gaining followers," Aziraphale said, tipping his head into Crowley's touch. Always like that. It was that subtle leaning in, the gravity, it was what made Crowley certain Aziraphale felt something for him.

But that wasn't for Crowley to decide.

"And letting him whip you?"

"Penitence," Aziraphale answered as Crowley miracled water and rags to rinse the wounds.

"For what are you repenting?" Crowley asked archly. An angel asking for forgiveness? Really.

"I think I have plenty of things to be sorry for,"AAziraphale said, glancing up at him, blue eyes dark and sad. Crowley didn't want to read into that. Best tuck that away to be thought on later. A worry stone in his pocket. He could run his thumb over it and wear it down in time.

"This will hurt," Crowley said. "Do you need something to bite down on?"

Aziraphale shook his head, fisting his hands on his knees. The set of his jaw reminded Crowley that Aziraphale had been a warrior, it was quiet strength and beauty, a shield more than a sword because there was nothing sharp about Aziraphale.

Crowley ran the water down his back in small rivulets, watched dirt from the whip mix into the copper-stained water. The blood was fresh and Crowley could smell it, taste it on the back of his tongue.

The muscles in Aziraphale’s back strained as he tried to keep still, instinct telling him to pull away from the pain. But they both knew something. They both knew where this went. That when the pain reached its peak, Aziraphale would finally reach for Crowley.

So Crowley worked studiously in the mounting quiet. The town was settling in around them, the sun setting.

“Lay out on your stomach on the bed," Crowley said, voice more choked than he'd like to admit. Stupid feelings crawling inside. Just like his namesake, squirming, hissing. "We should let your back dry," he explained when Aziraphale hesitated.

And then Aziraphale stood and Crowley saw the other reason he hesitated. He was hard in his trousers. His cock obvious through the thin, wet material.

"I-" Aziraphale began, voice just as hoarse. "I'm going to take off my trousers. They’re soaked."

"Nah," Crowley said, moving close. "Let me do that. Don’t want to" - he brushed his fingers over Aziraphale’s waistband and relished his sharp inhale - "make the bleeding worse."

"Right," Aziraphale stammered as Crowley undid his laces, slipping his hands inside to loosen the trousers and press them down.

Life with the zealots had made Aziraphale thinner than he had been. His stomach no longer swelled against Crowley's body. Crowley had the strangest urge to whisk him away from this place. Somewhere he could feed him grapes by hand until he was plump and golden and happy.

But they didn't have that.

They had drunken nights in dark taverns. And bleeding tumbles in back rooms. That was what Crowley gave him because that was what Aziraphale asked for.

He wasn't about to hold out his hand and beg for scraps.

Aziraphale trembled as Crowley knelt before him, tugging his trousers off one leg at a time. The angel wasn't wearing shoes and the sight of his bare feet did something to Crowley's insides. The fine vulnerable bones of them, the golden sheen of hair on his toes. Had he seen Aziraphale feet before? Must have done.

Aziraphale erection was bobbing not a few inches from his mouth but he couldn't do anything about it. Aziraphale had to ask. He had to initiate.

Crowley would never forget the time in Italy when he had, stupidly, idiotically, kissed Aziraphale over terrible wine. He hadn't even been drunk. But Aziraphale blustered and blathered and called him a fiend. Crowley had tried to remind him of the things they got up to after battles, ask what's the difference, but Aziraphale had left him there to get drunk alone.

Nothing sharp about Aziraphale indeed.

"Get in bed, you lummox," Crowley said, standing and pretending like he hadn't just been staring at Aziraphale’s cock and thinking about tasting the pearly bead of slick brimming at the tip.

Aziraphale shuffled over to his bed. It was wide and luxurious, because Aziraphale was an epicure at heart. His cock jutted out from his pelvis, obscene and deliciously human.

After the kiss that didn't happen, Crowley had expected it to be over. No more dirty bloody fumbles. But then Arthur's castle and Calais and Agincourt. Aziraphale initiated, Aziraphale touched him and tried to kiss him, asked him to stay.

But Crowley was not a fool. He had handed his heart over like a starving merchant and he only had his dignity. Aziraphale lusted for him. Maybe even felt the same soft things Crowley did. But if he wasn’t willing to kiss him over a jug of sour cherry wine then Crowley wasn’t going to fall to his knees and beg.

Aziraphale laid down on the bed with a low grunt of pain. Crowley saw the slight twitch of hips and he flexed his hands at his sides. Wait. Be patient. Aziraphale always caved.

Aziraphale’s back shone with water, the lashes purpling at the edges from where they would bruise. His back would be an imperfect lattice of scars when this was over. Set to match the wounds on his arms and chest. The angry line on his hip.

Crowley climbed onto the bed and straddled Aziraphale’s thighs, close to the swell of his arse. He forced himself to focus on Aziraphale’s back. The angel would ask. He always did.

With clean cloth, Crowley dried his back, avoiding the wounds as best he could. Aziraphale’s muscles clenched beneath him whenever it stung, his chest starting to heave with the effort of breathing through the pain.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed.

There it was.

“You alright, angel?” Crowley asked innocently.

“Please,” Aziraphale said, rolling his hips down into the bed so that his meaning was absolutely clear.

“Since you asked nicely,” Crowley drawled, tossing the towel aside and sliding down the bed so he could spread Aziraphale’s legs. He traced two fingers over his perineum and Aziraphale sucked in a breath. “Do you want this?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale gasped.

Crowley’s heart was beating in his ears as he spread Aziraphale open in front of him, a feast just for him. This soft place where Crowley could lose himself in the noises Aziraphale made. Where Crowley could bring him pleasure with no thought for pain.

Aziraphale couldn’t fuck him. Not injured like this. And Crowley was going to savor the moment where he was in control. He wanted Aziraphale to remember what it was like to have Crowley pleasure him. It wasn’t finding release in Crowley’s body, seeking out hurts.

Crowley didn’t think Aziraphale knew it could be like this between them. Soft.

But it was what Crowley thought about in the darkest hours of the evening, curled in on himself by some hearth. What if he could hold Aziraphale? What if they went slow? What if it wasn’t tearing at each other, pressing into the bruises and the wounds?

Aziraphale moaned as Crowley sank his tongue inside him, twisting it to make him cry out, then soothing with short licks. He liked the way Aziraphale’s hair tickled his face, how it felt under his palms. With a long, flat lick, Crowley nuzzled the base of his spine, an uninjured space, two beautiful dimples pressed just above his hips. Crowley kissed them and Aziraphale made a sound. A tiny one. But it was what Crowley wanted to hear.

His name, on an exhale.

Crowley sank back down and tasted him, Aziraphale slowly rocking his hips down into the bed, moans dropping from his mouth like fragile leaves in autumn. Crowley’s heart fell with them.

He was hard between his own legs, arousal sharp and painful and not worth addressing. It was when Aziraphale finally came onto the bedding without Crowley touching him that Crowley withdrew, spit slick on his mouth and chin. He couldn’t breathe through the pain in his own chest. He wanted to say it.

Let me kiss you, love you. Why won’t you let me? You feel it too. I know it.

Instead, he rolled Aziraphale onto his side carefully, and cleaned him with gentle hands.

“Better?” Crowley asked as he dried the wet spot on the mattress with a quick snap of his fingers.

Aziraphale looked at him as if through a haze and hummed.

“Let me wrap your back. Sit up would you?”

Aziraphale obeyed, movements sluggish. He let his feet hang off the edge of the bed. In this position, Crowley could see the slight roll to his stomach and it made something settle inside him. He was still Aziraphale. He was still soft. Even if he wasn’t as soft as he used to be.

Crowley settled behind him on his knees and carefully covered his wounds in poultice, wrapping his torso with straps of clean cloth. His hands brushed Aziraphale’s sides, his chest, his belly. Crowley wanted to leave them there just to feel his heat.

He wouldn’t.

When it was done, Aziraphale settled back on the bed on his side, watching as Crowley climbed to his feet. He needed to leave before it all took a turn, before he lost himself. He took a deep breath.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said. The word was broken at the syllable, cracked in two. Crowley turned back to him.

He was struggling to sit back up, wincing with every movement. "You don't have to go," he said. The candle light flickered in his eyes, looking like unshed tears.

The sight sheathed itself between Crowley's ribs.

Crowley hesitated. Pathetic, weak.

“Please,” Aziraphale added. And Crowley broke.

He crawled back into bed and laid back against the pillows. Was he supposed to sleep?

"Why don't you tell me what you're doing in Wittenberg?" Aziraphale said, reaching out and placing a warm hand on Crowley's thigh. Crowley stared at it. This was bad.

He wasn't going to put a stop to it.

"We both know you wont like the answer," Crowley observed wryly. Aziraphale snorted.

"Perhaps not. Tell me all the same. I promise I won't be too righteous."

Crowley settled against the pillow and rolled over to look at Aziraphale. "What if I said i was here for a murder or something grotesque?"

"Are you?" Aziraphale asked, eyes popping open.

Crowley smirked. "No, but I know you'd let me have it if I were."

Aziraphale smiled at him, slightly pained. Crowley searched his face, looking for something he knew he wouldn’t find.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said quietly as his eyes drifted shut.

“For what?”

“Staying.”

Crowley stared at the ceiling and tried not to sigh. His heart was beating itself to bruised against his ribs.

He was fucking pathetic.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> im going to be writing in this series until i feel less anxious so idk what that means but happy ending eventually!
> 
> EDIT: amazing (nsfw) art by doorwaytoparadise [here](https://twitter.com/nothistoryart/status/1245760998130233344?s=19)


End file.
